


It's Been You and Me

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series, Red Dragon Spoilers, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A forever after in ten vignettes as experienced by a man who was loved unconditionally until the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Been You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> Beware of potential spoilers for season 3 and Red Dragon; nothing too obvious, but it's definitely there if you squint. Also, I chose not to use archive warnings as to not spoil the actual ending of the fic which I promise will be bittersweet if you so choose to continue reading.

**i.**

Molly asks him one day what her name was.

The question earns her a quizzical look from Will who is hunched over a boat engine, fingers slick with oil. He drops a bolt in the toolbox before reaching for a rag, getting to his feet and asking straight out what she means.

She tells him he sometimes gets a faraway look in his eyes when he sits out on the porch, tumbler of whiskey in one hand, an iPad on the other. She says she knows the look, recognizes the pain that is hidden very well, more so than the pain Will has carried with him for years, like a bridal train.

_A first love,_ she asks.

_No,_ he answers plainly, cleaning up his work area and calling it a day.

_True love, then._

Her mirthful words make him smile, genuine and light with a happiness that still feels alien to him. _Maybe._

_She really must have been something._

_He was._   


**ii.**

When Molly died, Will left Florida behind. Her death had been a natural one albeit difficult, leaving him simultaneously bothered and at peace. He had woken up to an empty bed and a note on the fridge stating she was going to the hospital to get a pain checked out.

Those had been her last words to him, written on a piece of white paper, now yellow where he keeps it in his wallet.

One year later, he writes a letter he will never send. No address to send it to, he had realized once he’d signed his name at the very end. He keeps that in his wallet, too.  


**iii.**

The stream is quiet, still swathed in its hues of gold and browns. Its shores are overgrown with weeds, painted wild after years of abandonment. The trees are almost entirely dry, with little leaves still sticking to the branches that hang closest to the water.

His fishing gear lies forgotten beside a stump, propped up like a beacon for anyone wandering, lost.

Will spots an impression on the grass and the caress of a memory moves on before it can fully form. He can almost feel the huff of an animal against his shoulder, almost hear its gait. Instead, all he finds is a small bunch of black feathers and velvet tines.  


**iv.**

Will travels. He tells himself it’s because he no longer has anything to do, and he would rather not grow stagnant at his age, fearing what he might do during a long bout of boredom.

He sells his house, his car, and procures a ticket to England.

A small amount of the money earned is spent on a suit.  


**v.**

He treats himself to one gourmet meal per country, wanting to partake in the cultural wonders of his personal tour. Salads, soups, fish, meat, dessert, drinks. Nothing can really compare when the table is empty, when there is no one to smile at him over the rim of a glass.

Will asks for the check and the bottle of wine, thanks his server in clumsy Lithuanian.  


**vi.**

He spends a week in Florence, walking along streets and churches he’d visited long ago. Memories move like ghosts by his side, keeping him company, whispering echoes both hateful and loving.

A young woman approaches him at a museum, her teeth a row of pearly whites when she explains that the piece he stands before is one of Blake’s better known paintings. _There’s quite the story behind it, too,_ she says, her accent thick and lovely.

Will nods his head and lets her talk, his mind wandering.

He knows the story of the Dragon all too well.  


**vii.**

His travels are cut short when his breathing becomes too painful.

Paris is his last stop before returning home, wherever that may be now.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the white pillow with two crimson stains on his lap, looking at the Eiffel Tower through the hotel room window as it shines among the torrential rain like a lighthouse.

A woman once told him about ostentatious ballroom dances and graceful turns over marble floors. He recalls ignoring her in favor of wallowing in his anger, for whatever good that did him.  


**viii.**

Caesar's barking is what wakes him from a dreamless sleep, and then he hears the knocking on his front door. It takes him a while to slip on a shirt and fumble his way to open it. He doesn’t bother checking who’s knocking. He stopped doing so fifteen years ago.

The young man who stands there is nothing but a specter sent to torment Will’s jaded mind. His presence alone is enough to send him into a coughing fit.

_Mr. Graham?_ the young man asks, his accent foreign and familiar all at once.

Will allows to be guided to the recliner, where he unceremoniously plops down with a sigh and another wave of wet coughs. He nods his answer.

_You are a difficult man to find. I was forced to search through old FBI databases._

_You look just like him,_ Will says instead, pressing a hand to his mouth.

_I was asked to personally deliver this letter._

The envelope is thick and rich to the touch, with golden curls engrained along its border. At the corner there is a coat of arms pressed in relatively fresh ink. A wax seal rests on the back.

_Stay for coffee,_ Will says, his weary bones heavy with nostalgia. _Tell me about him._

The young man smiles, small and secretive, and prepares them tea instead while he talks about his mother, father, and younger sister. He talks about the horses they own, about the traveling they did, about the books his father published under a different name, and the seven dogs he adopted against their mother’s wishes.

Will shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine a life that never could have been his own, although he wishes it were.

The young man properly introduces himself, speaks of the one and only argument he had with his father when he had decided to pursue law rather than medicine. Will laughs, whispers the word _reckoning_ before laughing some more. He waves his hand when the young man gives him a concerned look.

_Your sister?_

_A dancer. She always does get away with everything._

The tea grows cold in Will’s hands as he continues to stares at him, the sharp lines of his face and the deep brown of his eyes. Just as severe as his father, just as handsome. A better, polished version of him. Hopefully, a saner one.

_Mother once asked him if there was someone before her,_ the young man says, looking to the letter beside Will. _He told me there was, that he feared that person will remain with him until the end._ His bitterness is blatant. _He loved Mother. None of us ever doubted that, but he would write sonnets about this past love of his. Would compose pieces on his harpsichord. Would draw him every other year._

_Was that how you recognized me?_

_You were a lot younger in his drawings._

Will nods. _Would?_ he asks, and the look on the young man’s face is enough to bury the last of his strength. 

He was human after all.

The gleam in his eyes and the dampness on his cheeks go politely unmentioned. His father taught him well.

_He would sit before the fireplace with an empty glass in hand, speak things that made no sense. Mostly about palaces and fireplaces. At the very end, all he would say were names, most of which none of us recognized._ The young man smiles, almost fond. _He didn’t call for Mother, or Mischa, or me. He called for you._

Will’s hand fumbles and he’s forced to put down his cup, his other hand coming up to press against the faded scar on his abdomen.

_What were you to him?_ the young man says, not without a hint of accusation.

It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does, he laughs. _I was his friend._

The young man leaves shortly after, shaking Will’s hand and leaving behind his contact information.

Will stashes the envelope under lock and key in the desk by the window, never to be opened while his heart keeps beating and lungs keep breathing.  


**ix.**

Water laps at Will’s feet on a cool summer night.

Above head, the sky is clear with a curtain of stars illuminating the inky black canvas. Tiny pinpricks of light to guide Will into the long night, without fear of a life left unfinished.

He sinks his toes into the wet sand and lingers, counts his breaths as the wind whips his hair along his face.

He finds that he isn’t alone on the beach; this much is noticed when a hand touches his shoulder, urging him to turn around and into arms that haven’t held him in decades.

“Hello, Will.”

Will buries his face against the soft fabric of the suit, clinging onto the only man who could ever love him so unconditionally.

They sway to a song all their own, out of tune, but perfectly in synch.

With a shuddering breath and one last chance, Will cards his fingers through the soft hair on his head, brushes his knuckles along the side of his chiseled cheeks with every ounce of adoration he’s coveted towards the man since meeting him.

Will presses their mouths together, and his only regret is never having done this while their bodies were still warm.

“Hello, Hannibal.”  


**x.**

The little house in Wolf Trap, Virginia is sold to a young newlywed couple at a bargain price.

Realtors jokingly spoke of hauntings (its last owner died in front of that very fireplace, drowned in his own blood), and of creatures lurking in the nearby woods (long thought to be extinct), but the two women had found the stories to be charming. _Some of that Southeast Coast charm._

They knock down the shed where bodies were supposedly buried, and keep the more modern furnishings, including the piano, bookshelves, and the antique desk by the window.

They paint and remodel until the dilapidated house comes alive with warmth during the long winter months.

Eventually they adopt a baby boy, and when he’s old enough to do so, he brings home a stray dog.

One day he discovers a key hidden under a fish figurine on the fireplace mantel, and he and his mothers play a game of _what lock does it go to?_ It’s when he’s in bed, exhausted after a long day, and they decide to try the desk.

Within the drawer is a wallet with five dollars in cash, a driver’s licence, and notes too faded to be readable. There are photos of people, dogs, houses, and offices. A hunting magazine, ticket stubs for the movies, a paisley handkerchief, newspaper clippings, and an envelope.

They move the contents into a box and lock it in the basement, all for the exception of the letter.

This they keep on the mantelpiece, ready to frame and hang on the wall.

The letter, with it’s elegant script and short words, deserve to be shown. The love that single piece of parchment holds deserves to be read and cherished, immortalized as an ideal that is so fervently longed for and rarely achieved.

_Forever yours, faithfully._

**\- H. L.**


End file.
